


Love

by SporkofDoom



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: First Kiss, Happy Ending, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2020-05-29
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:15:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24445678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SporkofDoom/pseuds/SporkofDoom
Summary: Crowley was not paying enough attention when Aziraphale started talking about relationships. Then Aziraphale disappeared.
Relationships: Crowley/Aziraphale
Comments: 3
Kudos: 61





	Love

Love.

Such a tricky word.

Crowley had trouble wrapping his mind around the concept somehow. Maybe that one-step-removed feeling that came so naturally to him when love entered the conversation had been part of his fall from grace. (If that had been grace.) Though he did not think that love was exactly a heavenly imperative. Gabriel radiated more tolerance than love, and even that tolerance could not be considered reliable. Heaven talked a great deal about love, but Crowley remained unsure exactly what that word meant to most of its denizens.

What was love? He was certain that love, like wine, came in many vintages. Not all of those vintages were palatable, at least not to him. The fires of Hell had never precluded love. One demon often found another demon to share the interminable noise and commotion in hell’s alternately damp or blistering hallways. Misery could love company, especially that one person who took the loneliness away. Because a lone angel, demon or human (and who knows how many other creatures) tended to miss that partner, the one who would laugh at the jokes and _remember_ … remember the moments, those isolated icebergs in time that somehow remain after mundane details like Tutankhamun’s reign or last Wednesday’s breakfast fade. Crowley could bear witness better than anyone that life is lived in moments, not days or years.

Crowley thought love probably came more easily to angels than demons. He would certainly rather bond over bad musicals than fraught interrogations. No one ever hissed in the gazebo during the Sound of Music.

So many years, he thought, over six thousand of them. He had never been alone, although through the millennia he had seldom bothered to think about this fact. 

“I took the angel for granted,” he told Eugenie, the short-haired, chocolate and tan dachshund that Aziraphale had given him for Christmas.

Eugenie looked adoringly up at him and wagged her tail. She sensed Crowley wanted a listener; listening and chewing up shoes were her specialties.

“Where is he?!?” Crowley demanded.

Aziraphale had disappeared the month before. Crowley thought he might have gone up to heaven on an errand. But why hadn’t he called? Crowley was walking around carrying his new iPhone, a gift from his eccentric angel. Aziraphale _liked_ phones. Not in the same way that he liked books or classical music, but the angel had taken to facetiming Crowley over the last few years. At first, Crowley had put the phone calls down to another angelic whim. Now he wondered.

“Dammit!” he said to Eugenie. “I should have been paying attention. I got stuck in the present again.”

The present often proved a problem for Crowley. Crowley did not need meditation to be-here-now. He was almost always here now. He might plan for the near future, attempt to keep his angel from wandering away by rescuing books. But he lived in the present day. For angels and demons, not travelling too far up or down the time line had always been part of remaining sane. Crowley rarely examined remarks and behavior for hidden meanings.

He thought back to the afternoon when he had last seen Aziraphale. They had been discussing the events just before Not-really-Armageddon, or he thought they had been. Now he was not so sure. He’d been relaxing in Aziraphale’s new bookshop, leaning back in a comfortable black leather armchair with his feet up, sipping an oaky Bordeaux.

“I realized something,” Aziraphale had said to him. “Back then, Sandalphon said, ‘You can’t have a war without War.’ Well, you can’t have a relationship without Relationship, Crowley.”

Looking back, Crowley understood that he should not have let that last inexplicable tautology go. He should have said, “What do you mean?” Instead, he had finished his last swallow of wine, put his feet down on the floor, and begun fiddling with a device called a fidget spinner. He had spun the shiny, blue-metal, three-lobed toy, watching as it scooted across the floor. Before the spinner stopped turning, Aziraphale had disappeared. Simply vanished, without even saying good-bye. At first, Crowley had not been concerned. It was Aziraphale’s bloody book shop, after all.

“Love,” Crowley said to Eugenie. “What does it mean? What’s it all about?”

No one had said anything about love in their discussion, of course. Sometimes Aziraphale talked about love, the love that permeated the area around Tadfield, England, for example. Crowley mostly tuned out those portions of the conversation. Crowley wasn’t much for love just as he wasn’t much for worry. Who, him worry?

“I didn’t mean to fall. I just hung around with the wrong people,” muttered Crowley. “I wasn’t paying attention. I never pay enough attention.”

Aziraphale had meant something with that relationship comment, dammit.

“I didn’t mean to fall,” Crowley repeated to Eugenie. “Or to miss my cue. But I am sure he expected me to leap in, probably discuss _relationships._ Arghh. I hate that stuff, Eugenie. He knows that. _”_

Eugenie wagged her tail. 

“The thing is, what if he was actually serious? I mean, we have a _relationship._ We do. Even saying that word sounds absurd. He gave me a dog, dammit. If that’s not a relationship… Of course it is. You don’t hand strangers a dog. So I don’t know what he was trying to say. And I can’t imagine how he can keep skipping Sunday morning breakfast.”

That was what scared Crowley. Aziraphale had been a no-show for three weeks now. Crowley had gone to the three restaurants on the calendar, but no angel. They always met for Sunday morning brunch. Aziraphale brunched while Crowley drank Bloody Marys. Aziraphale sipped Mimosas while Crowley nibbled small bites of bacon. Plate after plate crossed the Sunday tables as Aziraphale discussed favorite ham and gruyere quiches, steamed mussels, strawberry waffles, prime rib and different kinds of crabs. Crowley ate just enough to keep the angel from nagging him to eat.

Sunday morning was a ritual, the most established of all their rituals. Crowley had been building his schedule around those breakfasts for years now. They met at new bistros picked by Aziraphale. Time had gotten a bit wonky for him over the last millennia or two and he liked having a reason to keep track of the days. A Bloody Mary, a willing, understanding listener, a pair of expressive eyes that _saw_ him – he did not need more than that. Well, obviously one Bloody Mary was not enough, but the angel himself completed Crowley.

Had he ever told the angel that? Had he ever spoken seriously about their _relationship_ during any conversation? Year after year, century after century, across all those years, he had kept track of Aziraphale, watched out for him even as he watched out for himself. He had been there for Aziraphale. He remembered one of his favorite early brunches, a distant meal of crepes and brioche that had landed Aziraphale in the Bastille. Crowley had rescued him from the big head cutting machine all because his angel let “peckish” win out over even a scintilla of common sense. With a whole world of restauranteurs, being anywhere near the Bastille during the French Revolution had been entirely unnecessary. Crowley had danced his way to the altar of a church in London during the blitz to stop the Nazis from discorporating his friend. He had more than once saved Aziraphale’s precious books. All of that for one angel who somehow made the long years not merely tolerable, but somehow fun. Well, if that wasn’t a fucking relationship, what was?

“Lost, Eugenie. I am lost,” he said, tossing the dog an unopened bag of peanut butter dog treats. Eugenie had learned to open the bags herself, using her paws and teeth. The fact that demons did not realize dogs were not supposed to eat a whole bag of treats at once never occurred to Eugenie. Treats had been falling out of the sky since she was a puppy and the idea of being limited to a single treat or two would now have seemed positively inhumane to Crowley’s dog.

“I think he must be mad at me. But I haven’t the slightest idea of how to fix this. I can hardly storm heaven. If I did, what would I say? He’s mine? What if he’s not even there? He’s not much fonder of that prig Gabriel than I am. He can’t be on Earth though. I would sense it. So let’s say he’s in heaven. He can hardly be in hell. That man probably sweats holy water.”

Crowley glanced over to a charcoal-and-white plaid thermos in the whatnot.

Where had Aziraphale gone? He couldn’t be walking in parks. The November weather had turned wet and cold. Why didn’t he return?

What had Crowley done wrong?

______________________________________________________________________________

In Tadfield, Anathema made more tea. She kept making tea to go with the surfeit of cookies that filled her Tupperware and every other container in the tiny cottage. She kept going for walks. She kept waiting for the angel to go away. But he seemed to have moved in with her. Every morning, he was waiting at her table. On a good day, he baked her cookies or muffins. On a bad day, he discussed relationships.

Anathema did not know much about relationships. She and Newt were doing well enough, but she recognized she was lucky. Newt was naturally agreeable. If she called him to say, “let’s go to Bora Bora tomorrow,” he would probably just start packing. Aziraphale’s relationship sounded much more complicated.

“If he loved me, he would listen to me,” Aziraphale stated emphatically. “He does not listen.”

Anathema almost groaned. It was a relationship day, then. She opened a larger piece of Tupperware and pulled out a snickerdoodle.

A pause stretched out and Anathema had to make a choice. Start the conversation? Take her tea and snickerdoodle out into the yard? If she were lucky, Adam and the kids would turn up. Aziraphale got on surprisingly well with the dog. Maybe the postman would turn up? Or a meteorite would strike the farm next door?

“I try not to put demands on him,” Aziraphale declared.

Anathema sat down in one of the pseudo-colonial walnut chairs at the table. Neither Adam nor the meteorite were likely to rescue her, and the postman would provide only the briefest of respites. She might as well get on with it.

“Perhaps you should put demands on him,” she said firmly. “What gives him the right to ignore your feelings? When two people are partners, they listen to each other. That’s the absolute minimum to expect in a partner.”

“But he doesn’t listen,” Aziraphale said softly. “Not very often. I don’t even know how he knows to turn up with the books.”

“What books?”

“Oh, he brings me presents. First editions, classic tomes. The books you never sell, the ones you hide away. He has a remarkable eye for the right kind of book, too. Odd, given how little he reads. He’s always puttering while I read. Or driving much too fast.”

“You read in the car?” How could anyone read in a moving vehicle? Anathema always took sick when she tried.

“It’s much better than looking,” Aziraphale answered. “I read often in the car and I try very hard not to look up. It’s better not to know.”

“Not to know what?” Anathema asked.

“Anything. What’s out there. What’s coming at us. Whether or not the car is on fire. I mean, you never can tell what might happen with Crowley driving.”

“Why don’t you drive?” Anathema asked sensibly.

Aziraphale just stared at her.

“I usually drive Newt,” Anathema added. “I’m a better driver for one thing, and I like to be in control.”

“I could never drive,” Aziraphale said, after taking a large swallow of tea. “Crowley would get annoyed with me.”

“So instead you read books and let him do whatever he wants.”

“Well, yes. It makes him happy.”

“But that’s your problem.”

“That he’s happy? He’s my favorite person in the whole universe. I want him to be happy. Well, I think I do. No, I am sure I do. I just want him to take me seriously. To listen to me. I have needs. I want him to understand that I don’t like heat, for example. I just don’t. So why can’t we get a car with air-conditioning?”

Anathema blinked, looking perplexed.

“Isn’t there magic you can do? A cooling spell or something?”

“Yes, of course,” Aziraphale sighed. “But that’s not the point. He leaves me to cool myself. It’s always up to me. Everything is always up to me. I pick the breakfast spot. I arrange the picnic. I find the park to explore, the people to watch.

“Oh, yes, nice volcano, he said a few weeks ago. Nice volcano? All that fascinating magma, a glimpse right into the center of the Earth, much too hot, but the most fascinating streams of spicy-hot colored molten rock. Nice volcano was all he said. The same way he might say good French toast or lovely spider’s web. He indulges me. He walks through the park or into the volcano, but I can tell he doesn’t really _care_. And he never slows down. He drives that damn car as if Beelzebub was chasing him or he was racing in the Indiana 457 or whatever that race is.”

“Pretty sure it’s not the Indiana 457,” Anathema said. “But I get the point. You realize this is normal relationship stuff?”

“It is?” Aziraphale looked shocked.

“Well, yes. If you look at the advice columns, you will find all sorts of writers talking about how their partner never pays enough attention to them and he is always going out partying with mates instead of helping with chores, that sort of thing.”

“I admit I do the chores. If I did not do a little magic, the floors would never be clean. He’d never bother to disappear the dishes. Garbage could pile up to the ceiling and he would not care. Well, eventually he would but somehow I always get to the cleaning first.”

“You what?” Anathema paused. “Of course you do. And you don’t say anything about that, do you? Not directly. You probably remark on the clean floor, a remark he ignores.”

“While he drinks an aged bottle of port. He cares more about that port than he does about keeping me happy.”

“Is he out partying with mates rather than helping with the children?” Anathema got up and poured a stiff shot of Irish whiskey into her tea. She sensed this might be a longer morning than most. No baking cookies today, not at this rate.

“What? We don’t have children. Well, Eugenie, but she’s a dachshund. I understand they call them fur babies nowadays. He’s good to Eugenie. Quite good. She never lacks for treats. Ever. And she doesn’t care if he is driving 200 kilometers per hour. She just sits in back, wags her tail and barks at dogs in other cars, between shredding more treat packets. She doesn’t bark much, though. We pass the other cars too quickly.

“I imagine he has mates, but I don’t know them. He doesn’t hang out with his own crowd and he certainly doesn’t hang out with mine. He does go to car shows. He talks to those people sometimes. He goes to breweries and distilleries too. _That_ lot have been known to drop by the bookstore to share a bottle or two, get his opinion. He definitely drinks too much.”

“Well then,” Anathema said sensibly, “he does help with the children and he is not out partying.”

“I suppose,” Aziraphale granted. “He has been known to disappear for a few centuries here and there, up about his own thing, but lately I will say he has been more reliable. For years, he has managed to make Sunday breakfast.” Aziraphale felt guilty as he shared this last. Had Crowley been waiting for him last week? Or the week before?

Anathema sipped her tea.

“You could do a lot worse,” she pointed out.

Well, yes, of course. But everything is up to me. Even if he makes a suggestion like let’s go to Bora Bora, I know it will be up to me to figure out what to do once we get there. And then it will be ‘nice volcano’ or something like that. Why do I always have to lead? He’s the demon. I’m the angel.”

Bora Bora? Was he reading her mind? Oh, that was just perfect.

“He should be listening to me.” Aziraphale pouted slightly. “He should not be taking me for granted.”

“Would you like some whiskey?” Anathema held up the bottle. This was turning into one of those relationship discussions with a capital “R.” They all sounded the same, she thought. He does not understand me. He does not listen to me. He does not… He does not… He does not… Oh, well. Time to wade in and see if she could help, if only to get the angel out of her kitchen.

“You are being absurd,” Anathema declared. “Can’t you see he loves you?”

“If he loved me, I think he would slow down,” Aziraphale said petulantly. “He would not have left me here to stew for weeks if he loved me.”

“Ummm, as to that, he might not know you are here. Adam doesn’t like outsiders. He’s not exactly keeping them out, you understand. You can drive in and you can drive out. But somehow Tadfield disappears from memory once you leave. I think if you have never been here before, you might not be able to get here at all. You can visit me because you remember me from before, but much of the world now has no idea Tadfield exists at all.

“And maybe you should flip what you just said on its head. If you loved Crowley, wouldn’t you go faster? If you loved him, would you have spent the last few weeks in my kitchen?”

Aziraphale stared. “What?”

Anathema nibbled her cookie.

“Maybe you’re right! What if I don’t love him!?” Aziraphale exclaimed.

“What?” Anathema choked slightly on the snickerdoodle.

“Well, that would explain it,” Aziraphale said.

“Explain what?” Anathema asked. She had been somewhat lost for weeks. Now she was completely flummoxed.

“Why I am here!” Aziraphale proclaimed triumphantly.

The angel, Anathema concluded, was sometimes a nitwit.

______________________________________________________________________________

  
Crowley threw another book across the room.

Eugenie ignored the book. She did not mind this new set of dog toys, but she liked smaller toys with leather covers. What was the sense in shredding cardboard that had no food inside?

“I don’t need him, you know,” he told Eugenie. “I can spend time with my other friends.”

Crowley opened another bottle of Pinot Blanc, a rare foray into white wines. He sloshed some into his goblet, and more onto the table.

“I can!” he insisted.

Eugenie put her head on her paws. Books were not treats, and the monologue was getting tiring. She wished they could go for a ride. The dachshund yawned.

“Oh, bored are you?” Crowley demanded. “Well, what about me? What am I supposed to do? I used to know what to do. I did fine for centuries. I loved the Middle Ages, except for the 14th century. Don’t understand why I stayed in Europe for that one. I even managed to have a good time during the Dark Ages, although the truth is I still don’t quite get the Dark Ages. What made them so dark? The Huns, Goths, Vandals, Bulgars, and Franks, they were good company. They knew how to make a good flagon of mead. Oh sometimes you could taste the mud. They didn’t have kilns. But those flagons worked. I mean the Goths, for instance. How did they get such a bad reputation? Why are the Goths any worse than the Irish Republican Army or the British Dental Association? That is, except for the mud. But drink enough mead, and who cares about mud?

Eugenie had fallen asleep.

“Hmmph,” Crowley said softly. “This isn’t helping, is it?” He eyed the Pinot Blanc, then took in the backroom of Aziraphale’s new bookstore. Books all over the floor. Glass on the table. He’d broken a glass earlier and while he’d magicked the shards off the floor to protect the dog, he hadn’t bothered with the table. And what was he drinking? Pinot Blanc was an inferior beverage. No doubt some better versions of this appellation could be found, but the whole Pinot Blanc plan had been a colossal waste of time. No wonder Eugenie had decided to leave the party.

“We could go somewhere,” he said to the sleeping Eugenie. “I mean, why not? I don’t want to clean. He doesn’t deserve it, not if he can’t even make time for a strawberry waffle with his best friend. So why don’t we visit some of our other friends?”

“Eugenie!” He said loudly. “Eugenie! Want to go for a ride?”

Eugenie perked up. “Ride”? The better word was “walk” but only Aziraphale used that word. Not that Crowley did not take her for walks, but he did not call them walks and he did not use the leash. Crowley simply held the door open for her and expected her to keep up. With her short, little legs Crowley-walks at best turned into jogs and sometimes runs. Still, Eugenie understood the rules. The door opened and you ran like hell through the opening. On ride days, you got tossed in the car. If Aziraphale was there, you might be able to stick your nose out the window. When he wasn’t, you stayed away from openings: Left turns were bad, and right turns could be worse.

But rides were always fun. Eugenie loved going fast. She leapt to her feet and started running to the door.

“Right!” Crowley exclaimed. “Tadfield!”

The choice had been a simple one. If he was going to spend time with his other friends, he was going to Tadfield. He was unsure if he had any friends besides Aziraphale, but anyone who knew him at all was probably in Tadfield. Anyone who wasn’t a demon, that was, and he did not want a demon friend.

The door swung open, banging loudly against the brick wall behind it, as Crowley stepped out to pick up the waiting Eugenie, whose tail wagged as she waited to try to plant her latest landing. 

“I don’t need him,” Crowley said firmly. “There’s always…” Newt? Newton Pulsifer was probably as good a candidate for a new friend or drinking buddy as … he had been about to say Vladimir Putin, but then realized that Putin had definite potential. Damned if he was going to Russia now though. November in England was bad enough. Not Newt. He could not imagine telling Adam about Aziraphale’s peculiar disappearance. Adam would probably listen; he was odd that way. But Adam was too young to understand. As to Dog, he was already talking nonstop to a dog.

“It will have to be Anathema,” he said. “She is a woman, but I think I might like a woman friend. Women aren’t men, you know,” he said to Eugenie.

Eugenie wagged her tail.

______________________________________________________________________________

The car slewed in the mud, spattering the mailbox. A heavier than usual night rain had fallen earlier and car’s tracks formed puddles immediately. It was three in the morning, but Crowley was oblivious. After weeks of wondering what he might have done wrong, what he had said or left unsaid, he knew he was on the cusp of finding out what had happened.

And he was not ready, he suddenly realized. He wanted answers to his text messages. He wanted to hear the angel’s voice. But maybe, just maybe, he did not want to hear what the angel had to say.

“You can’t have a relationship without a Relationship,” he had said.

That phrase sounded fraught. Ominous even. Relationship was one of those words.

Some words were easy. Cigar. Cigars might be fatter or thinner, from Cuba, Brazil or the Dominican Republic, but cigars were always cigars. Or houseplant. A houseplant was a houseplant, unless one had to shove the offending object down the disposal. Then it became a former houseplant.

He looked into the backseat at Eugenie, who wagged her tail but stayed seated. Crowley did not seem ready to leave the car.

“I hope you realize I would never… well, you know,” he said conversationally. “You don’t have to worry. You and Mr. Insinkerator will never become acquainted.”

Eugenie wagged her tail again.

“Well, let’s go,” Crowley said. “You can’t have a War without War.”

Was he going to War? Or was he going to Relationship? He was going somewhere new, Crowley was sure. That faint smell of brimstone had been lurking in the air for decades now, maybe longer. He had not exactly missed the whiffs of that smell, but he had buried them in Beaujolais and other fermented grapes, along with an occasional snort or even an umbrella cocktail.

“It worked for ME,” he said to Eugenie. “I was fine.”

He opened the car door reluctantly.

_____________________________________________________________________________

“Well, here you are!” Aziraphale exclaimed.

Crowley stared. It was just Aziraphale. Just Aziraphale in … blue jeans? With a green and blue plaid shirt and a big straw hat, standing between a sink and a table, with one hand on the back of a pseudo-colonial wooden chair in a small kitchen. The plaid shirt was unbuttoned on top, showing a white, V-neck t-shirt. Crowley was appalled.

“I was planning to work in the garden,” Aziraphale explained. “The hat belongs to Anathema.”

Crowley nodded.

“I’m not quite sure how plants work, “but I decided it was time to find out. Anathema is sleeping.”

“Talk to them,” Crowley said.

An awkward silence fell. Crowley had no idea what to say and Aziraphale had decided not to help him for a change. 

“Odd time to garden,” Crowley said finally. “The plants will be sleeping too.”

“Plants sleep?”

“Oh, yes. You could wake them up of course. You start yelling and they will come back from wherever they have gone.”

“Yelling?” A hint of disapproval had leaked out from the eyes under the big straw hat. Aziraphale pouted slightly.

“Well, speaking firmly to them,” Crowley amended. The awkward silence fell again.

Where was the talking? Aziraphale should be talking. Not that the two of them did not do companionable silence quite expertly. But something was wrong with the feel in this kitchen. This was no time _not_ to be talking. The angel had popped out of the world without a word, for all intents and purposes, other than that odd relationship comment. The angel should explain what he had meant, not stand mute in this tiny kitchen.

“Your turn,” Aziraphale said tartly.

Crowley wanted to demur. He wanted to pretend that he did not understand, wait for Aziraphale to take pity on him and start their usual comfortable banter. But Crowley had never been a fool. He understood his angel, and his angel was … not exactly angry, but … upset, definitely upset. He’d seen Aziraphale do upset, he recognized that pinched mouth, that injured expression. He’d even see that expression directed at him before. But before, he’d done something to deserve that expression. Those were usually simple misunderstandings. The silence stretched out.

“Got you some cheese,” Crowley said at last. “Spanish goat cheese. Or sheep cheese. Not sure. I sampled it. Pretty good, I thought. The man at the market said it went with chocolate. I bought a young rioja to go with it, a red wine you should like. Should go with goat cheese. Probably works with sheep too.”

Aziraphale sighed.

“Cheese,” he said softly.

“You like cheese,” Crowley said defensively.

“So that is what you have been doing for the last month?” Aziraphale asked. “Finding mystery cheeses? I suppose that is a bit of a change for you. Eating cheese bits without my nudging you, that is.”

“It pairs with the wine”

“Ah. Now that sounds like you. Except for the cheese.”

Crowley was not about to admit the truth, the fact that somehow the sampling of cheeses had made him feel less off-center, as if his angel was still present. He had wanted something to say when Aziraphale turned up, to be able to welcome the angel home, but casually. No fuss, no commotion, just an, “oh, by the way…” That was part of being a demon. Demons did not do that mawkish romantic stuff.

Crowley had taken Eugenie for their usual walks in the park, knowing that if he could not sense the angel, then the angel was not there. Still he had kept glancing over to certain benches and other favorite rest spots. He had gone to a few promising estate sales known to include oldish books and manuscripts. He had ‘passed by’ quite a number of Aziraphale’s favorite restaurants and even done a couple of brunch crawls. He had even considered trying to crash the gates of heaven, although that had seemed so laden with the potential to go badly wrong that he had kept stalling, looking for the next best thing.

“So how’s Tadfield?” Crowley asked.

“Fine,” Aziraphale answered.

“Anathema and the kids?”

“Fine.”

“The Hell Hound?”

“Fine?”

“Is anyone not fine?” Crowley asked.

“I think Adam’s dad was having trouble with his digestion.”

Well, this line of questioning was going nowhere, Crowley thought. He did not know how to get to the problem, because problem there certainly was. Then he had an inspiration.

“Aziraphale,” he asked, “what do you want me to ask next?”

“Excuse me?”

“You can’t possibly want to spend weeks in this tiny kitchen or walking the fields of Tadfield talking to wild plants. Don’t get me wrong, I like Anathema. But this makes no sense at all. You are upset with me. I get that. So what should I say? What should I do? How do I fix this?”

The angel blinked, then turned to look out a window.

“Ohhh,” he said softly. “You are so hopeless. Don’t you see? I can’t always be feeding you your lines. Or your cheese. Or your emotional responses, as limited as those sometimes seem to be. Here’s the thing: you can’t have a relationship without Relationship. Do you see?”

Careful now, Crowley thought. We are there. We are right in the heart of this thing, whatever it is.

The angel sometimes underestimated Crowley’s understanding. A fallen angel might fall for many reasons. Once fallen, they often adopted a cavalier and scornful attitude as a form of self-defense. Who, me worry? Why should I care? Bring me another glass, bartender. I’ve got this. But the condescending and offhand manner Crowley used to keep the world and his personal pain at a distance was only a deception, one that he thought Aziraphale had understood.

“As limited as those sometimes seem to be.”

Limited?

“Limited?” he asked.

“Oh, come on,” Aziraphale _snapped._ “All these centuries and what have you done with your life? What have you ever really cared about? Have you ever had a single real Relationship?”

“I thought I did,” Crowley said softly. “In my own way, that is. I thought we were having fun. I was having fun. You in front, braving the M5 motorway with me, Eugenie in back making a mess. Everything seemed… well, the best ever, you know. No disagreeable reports to file, no need to justify myself all the time. No lost Antichrists or dogs. Finally, a rest. I was overdue for a rest you know.”

“A rest.” Aziraphale’s tone was dismissive.

That sparked Crowley’s anger.

“Yes, a bloody rest, you sanctimonious…” he stopped himself from issuing an obscenity that would escalate the tension.

“You should get out of your angel shoes for a few moments, Aziraphale. What have I done? I think I saved the world. Not sure you could have done it without me. No, that’s wrong. I know you would have failed without my help. Who got Adam to Tadfield? Me. Who saved Agnes Nutter’s prophecies for you? Me. Who destroyed his own car – the very best car in the history of the world -- to make sure YOU were safe? Me. And what the fuck is a real Relationship anyway? Do you know? Who left without saying a word? Just gobblefunked around with some angelic chunk from the Tower of Babble, something about war and War. Well, obviously you can have a war without War. She’s dead, Aziraphale, and Syria’s still a bloody mess. That war never stopped. Iran and Iraq may tip over any day now, and that Islamist stuff in Mozambique may not be a war, but it’s never going to be peace.

“And I deserve a rest. Year after year, trying to drink enough to overpower my demonic powers of recovery, working so hard to… I don’t know. Just be. Just be left alone. You had to deal with angels. _Angels._ Well, what do angels do? Talk you to death. Pat you on the head, then send you away. Reprimand you. Oh, yes. Oh, no! Not a _reprimand!_ Do you know what would have happened to me if I had given away that flaming sword? No one would have talked me to death, that’s certain. No one would have found enough pieces of me to put in the glove box of my car. You are so used to those pristine hallways above that I’d say you’ve hardly thought about my hallways. Maybe it’s time you did.

“Who am I, Aziraphale? What am I? What do you suppose my life was like when you were not around, when it was me, Hell, the damp and the bugs. Not to mention Hastur. And what are we, you and me? I thought we were something. I did. Why the bloody hell else would I be spending most of my free hours in a bookstore? I shelved some of those books. I helped you decorate this latest attempt to avoid selling books. Is this fair? Is this what I deserve?”

Aziraphale was standing back against the counter, pressing back to put as much space between himself and the angry demon as possible. Anathema was listening in a bedroom at the end of the hallway. Eugenie had positioned herself near the door, ignoring a large, delicious bully stick made from the pizzle of a bull. Crowley stepped forward, the table still between him and the angel. Aziraphale held up a hand, as if to say stop.

Crowley was finally focused, Aziraphale realized. No toys, no drinks, no random distractions, none of that offhand, whatever you say Aziraphale attitude, no eyes on the road as he terrified pedestrians while not responding to Aziraphale’s latest remarks. Crowley was looking straight at him. And Aziraphale was positively elated.

“Yes!” he exclaimed.

“What?!?” Crowley answered.

“Oh, sorry. No, this is not what you deserve and it is not fair at all. In fact, I’ve been beastly. Quite awful. But I thought you didn’t love me, you see.”

“What?!?” Crowley answered.

In a back bedroom, Anathema smiled. She sensed she might finally get rid of her houseguest.

“Love,” Aziraphale said firmly. “Sometimes people have to say the word. A relationship is not all wine, toys and pulp fiction.”

Crowley nodded, making a mental note to look up pulp fiction. Was that an American thing? He’d heard of it somewhere. The conversation had steered right off a cliff a little over a minute back, but he was fine by that. Driving off cliffs had been part of his life for so long.

“Don’t see why,” Crowley answered. “Why any special words are needed. Either you are or you aren’t. If you are, you don’t need words. If you aren’t, well that’s demon territory. Lies.”

“We don’t lie to each other,” Aziraphale acknowledged.

“I never have. You are the one person I have never lied to. I won’t either. The hardest part of being a libertine in a Relationship is keeping your stories straight. Better not to tell stories then. Except the tiny ones, of course, like I love the tattoo. Butterflies are my favorite.”

“You don’t like my tattoo?” Aziraphale was distracted.

“Oh, not yours. I was thinking of another tattoo. Very tasteful, yours, Fits perfectly on your forearm and such fine shades of purple and blue.”

Aziraphale looked at him suspiciously.

“Really,” Crowley continued. “Just lovely. But the important point, angel, is that any idea that we are NOT in a relationship is simply absurd. Isn’t that right, Eugenie?” He looked over toward the dachshund by the door, who wagged her tail enthusiastically.

“Crowley, it’s not enough.” Aziraphale took a deep breath and then slowly exhaled. “You have to tell me. You have to show me. Like Rick and Ilsa in Casablanca.”

“Rick and Ilsa did not end up together in Casablanca.” Crowley smiled slightly, indulgently. He had it now.

“You watch too many movies,” he said softly, moving around the table. “You’re about to move the boundaries, too, aren’t you? We have a pretty comfy set-up, you know. Relaxing. Undemanding. Easy.”

“I like easy,” Aziraphale gulped. “I do. I like being able to relax and read when I feel like it. Breakfast is usually lovely, even if you do hog the mimosas. But Crowley. Rick and Ilsa didn’t just listen to the piano and talk. They did more.”

Crowley stepped into Aziraphale’s space. He could not exactly have described where that space began and ended, but he had always heeded that invisible line. Aziraphale backed up against the kitchen counter. Crowley smiled. He stepped forward. First, he threw the ridiculous straw hat down the hallway.

“I remember one scene,” he said very softly, putting his arms around Aziraphale. “A perfect kiss. I think it starts with them hugging. She’s sad for some reason. I’ve been sad. My partner simply disappeared. He’s been my partner for a long time, too. Not sure how long. Do humans always know when their best friend becomes something more? Demons obviously can miss a few cues.”

“I missed a few too,” Aziraphale whispered. “I was so busy being annoyed about your seeming lack of ability to take anything seriously, your distracted behavior. I did not think about why or what you might be trying to escape.”

Crowley stroked Aziraphale’s neck, then ran his hand down the angel’s back, still holding him tightly with his other arm.

“I think I’ll do something unexpected,” Crowley said.

“You always do,” Aziraphale shut his eyes and rested his head on Crowley’s shoulder. He had wanted to feel those arms, that shoulder for so long. He held Crowley tightly. Having spent weeks planning important discussions, lining up question after question, he just let go of that plan. He felt Crowley’s hand under his chin, lifting his face up from the shoulder.

“You’ve been sad?” Aziraphale whispered.

“Duhh,” Crowley said softly. “Waiting and waiting. Where was he? Was he safe? Was he angry? What had I done?”

“It wasn’t what you’d done,” Aziraphale clarified, “as much as what you hadn’t done.”

“Like this?” Crowley kissed the tip of Aziraphale’s nose. He ran his lips across Aziraphale’s cheek, down to the nape of his neck, sucked on the soft flesh below his lips, tasting it with his tongue, then sucking it some more. Aziraphale gasped. Crowley lifted his head.

“Kiss me,” Crowley commanded quietly.

“I, I, I…” Aziraphale stuttered. This wasn’t what he had planned. What had happened to the talking? But he understood any time for talking had passed. Maybe tomorrow. Or the next day. Sooner or later, he would ask his Relationship questions. Because details mattered to Aziraphale, who did not always operate well in his partner’s whimsical world. 

“Kiss me,” Crowley repeated, a hint of laughter in his voice now. This was new. And this would be fun. Sooner or later, he would have to deal with the stupid Relationship discussion. But not now. He reached behind Aziraphale’s head and gently pulled his angel toward him. Aziraphale yielded, a soft, higher-pitched moan escaping him. Oh, this would be fun.

Their lips met, and Tadfield and the world went away, as they explored each other’s taste and feel. They comforted each other, and held each other hungrily and possessively, until Crowley at last stepped back, not releasing his angel but allowing him a few extra centimeters of space.

“Time to go home,” he said simply. “Eat cheese, you know. Then I’ll help you out of that silly outfit and into something more comfortable.”

Something in his partner’s glowing, demon eyes sent frissons of anticipation through Aziraphale.

In a room neither could see, a witch fist-pumped the air in front of her, grinning, while Eugenie stood up, ready to make a run for the door.


End file.
